


The Blink of an Eye

by dracoqueen22



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Canonical Character Death, Episode 26 Adjacent, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 23:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18186785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Molly has a surprising lot to see when he dies, for all that he’s only been alive for a couple of years.





	The Blink of an Eye

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Mollymauk fanzine, but I chose a different fic in the end.

There’s an old saying Bosun used to mutter when he was going around muttering old sayings as people like Bosun are want to do.   
  
“Your entire life flashes before your eyes when you die.”   
  
Mollymauk Tealeaf has always found the statement somewhat ironic, given that he doesn’t have much to draw from. He’d even asked Bosun what happened to people who can’t remember their past. Bosun had an equally inane answer.   
  
“Your brain forgets but your soul doesn’t, eh?” he’d tapped his head and winked before jogging up to help Gustav set the tent.   
  
Bosun’s words echo at the back of Molly’s mind.   
  
He sees his death coming. He knows, before the glaive lands, that Lorenzo is going to kill him, and he’s going to die, here on the snow-choked dirt, mere feet from the friends he came to save.   
  
Mollymauk Tealeaf has not been alive very long. This body of his has been around longer than he knows, true, but it’s Molly’s body now, and his body has only been alive for two years.   
  
There’s surprisingly a lot of life to flash, given he’s only two years old.   
  
In a blink, in a moment that freezes, Lorenzo looming over him, glee on his devilish face, his glaive already stained with blood – Mollymauk freezes, too. Between one inhale and the following exhale, the world goes still. His heart doesn’t beat.   
  
And he sees.   
  
He sees Toya, there on the edge of his vision, dancing around a campfire, singing a childish song Ornna taught her as a warm-up, her eyes aglow with vigor, her curls bouncing around her shoulders. She giggles as she swirls, face alight with glee.   
  
Klyre is there, too, always within view. He loiters out of the fire’s reach, but he’s watching Toya, ready to protect her at a moment’s notice. His head tilts, listening to her song, and there’s a curve to his lips, an almost-smile.   
  
Music fills the air, beautifully bright fiddling as Desmond accompanies Toya’s dance, his eyes suspiciously shining while he perches on a log. His scarred face for once lacks its usual dour cast.   
  
Toya’s laugh gets brighter as Molly joins her, taking her hand, spinning her faster. He’s forgotten a lot of things, but apparently, not how to dance.   
  
They’d had a good show that day. A real good show.   
  
Molly blinks, slowly, so slowly. The glaive inches closer. He exhales.   
  
He sees.   
  
Ornna, braiding Yuli’s hair while Mona waits off to the side, fingers elegant as they draw thread and needle through her costume, cutting the thread with her teeth afterward. She admires her work with a proud smile as Ornna ties off a braid and motions for Mona to take Yuli’s place.   
  
Gustav joins Yuli on the back of the cart, offering a bowl of the stew he made. He exchanges the bowl for the needle and thread, and he fumbles with the mending while Yuli eats. She makes a face.   
  
Gustav has never been a good cook.   
  
Molly leans over their shoulder, pokes Yuli in the cheek, and she rolls her eyes and feeds him a bite of the stew.   
  
He makes a face, too.   
  
That stew had been vile.   
  
Molly blinks.   
  
The pressure of the glaive bites into his chest, piercing the soft cotton of his shirt, thread by thread, fraying the colorful strands. He tastes the blood on his tongue, bitter and copper.   
  
It’s the same blood he tastes when he steps in front of Caleb, taking a blow their squishy wizard would not have been able to survive. He retaliates by slicing with his scimitars, sending greenish blood spraying into the air, their opponent collapsing with a gurgle.   
  
“My thanks,” Caleb says, in that delightful accent of his.   
  
Molly turns to smile at him, and Jester’s giggling as she draws in her book, occasionally peering over at the gathered group before grinning and going back to work. Molly tucks his hands behind his back and saunters over, trying to get a glance over her shoulder.   
  
“Molly! I’m not done yet!” she complains, hiding the page against her chest as though that’ll stop him from getting a peek.   
  
“Needs a bit more muscle, darling,” Molly says as her cheeks darken and her eyes guiltily dart toward Fjord. He leans in closer. “And you know, he has a scar on his right hip.”   
  
Jester squeaks, and Fjord laughs, but it’s a different situation and a different time. It’s the two of them sharing a bottle of booze in their tiny room at an inn, Molly feeling wrecked after another barely-survived battle, and Fjord contemplating the mystery that is his falchion. For a moment, he’s less guarded, less pretend, and Molly is struck by how lucky he is to have found such amazing friends.   
  
The world blurs and he and Beau are sitting around a campfire, smoke curling quietly upward, a moment of peace between them. Beau’s talking, and Molly’s listening, and he’s twirling a card through his fingers, fearing what it means.   
  
This moment, he thinks, as he blinks and the glaive presses against his chest and sinks in, in, in. Like the way Nott’s crossbow bolts soar through the air and catch their dinner for the evening, pinning the rabbit to the ground with a heart-rending squeal.   
  
“It’s unsettling when they do that,” Molly says as Nott bounds over to retrieve her bolt and their tasty prize.   
  
“I can think of more unsettling things,” Nott says with a shrug and a grin that isn’t, hidden as it is behind her loose mask.   
  
She looks up at Molly like she wants him to agree with her, perhaps say that the most unsettling thing in this forest is her, but she’s wrong. Monsters don’t always look like monsters, Molly wants to say.   
  
Sometimes they look like the face you see in the mirror, the one you can’t bear to see. The monster is the lie you tell yourself when you stare into the distance, at the call of a storm. When you wake up and find that your new best friend is missing, and you race out of your tent to catch her.   
  
“I’ll be back,” Yasha says, like she always does. “I promise, Molly. I’ll be back.”   
  
 _Everyone leaves_ , he remembers thinking, though he doesn’t know why.   
  
He blinks, and the blade sinks deep, and Lorenzo gloats, and Molly spits blood at him because he’s going to die with as little grace as possible, here in the snow-mud road.   
  
Grey creeps around the edges of his vision, and he doesn’t feel the twist of the glaive, he doesn’t feel the icy-grip of the snow. He doesn’t hear Beau’s shocked gasp.   
  
Black flutters in his peripheral.   
  
 _One more try, Lucien?_  she whispers.   
  
 _Maybe not just yet_ , he answers.   
  
He still has a way to go.   
  


*

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged. :)


End file.
